Hotel
by RosyColoredSky
Summary: He moves in geometric shapes, his body flowing in concentric circles.  He's beautiful.  Arthur/Ariadne one-shot.


_Inception is possibly my favorite movie of all time. I hope I've done it the least amount of justice. Enjoy! (And review if you're feeling kind. ^^)_

* * *

**Hotel.**

Sleek and simple. Bare and stark. Modern lines and contemporary angles.

She never thought that such a spare place could look so beautiful.

Despite the panic she feels with Fischer's subconscious glaring daggers at her, as an artist, she can't help but to admire and appreciate the hotel in which she currently sits, right next to its host, a man to match the scenery to say the least. It is a maze-like place of her own creation and yet there is a sharper, cleaner edge to it; less flourish and more directness. She knows that this is not her doing because her nature isn't quite as streamlined. No, this characteristic comes from her partner, a man with cleaner edges than her own.

And, she realizes, while ignoring the stares (_you don't belong here / you don't belong here_), that somehow he is beautiful too.

He moves in geometric shapes, his body flowing in concentric circles even as they sit ramrod straight and still. Motions as little as an eye twitch, a nod of the head, or the slight whisper of his fingers against her own makes her constantly aware of the symmetry that possesses him, that cannot seem to let him go. It is both part of his charm and a detractor from it. She cannot decide if it is more one than the other, and at the moment she tries to let it go as he explains things that she should know in a voice with the even timbre of glass and steel.

In a second when he pauses to collect his thoughts, she wonders if he would like to live in a place like this. She can't imagine him settling in a place like Cobb's, more domestic than a picket fence, more homey than a fireplace in winter. Instead, he would probably prefer living here. A home that wasn't set in stone, a home constantly in transit with the people coming and going. Something tells her that settling makes him nervous, that he prefers things that are and aren't at the same time because he's afraid that he might make the wrong choice between dream and reality.

Of course this is all her private speculation. He could be just as assured and confident as he looks. But when he picks up on another explanation, she notices the slight shift in his eyes, the symmetry losing him for just a moment, and she is assured that she is right.

The eyes continue to bore into the both of them. She feels hot pinpricks in her skin and she wishes it to stop. She knows he feels the same as well because as every second passes, he becomes less and less a part of the architecture and more and more an entity like her, someone with anxious flourishes who just can't submit to being contorted into an angle. And whether or not the following moment is born of a momentary mental synapse malfunction or of anything real, it happens and it happens not without consequence.

"Quick give me a kiss."

The touch of their lips is just a moment and not even a moment happening in reality, but she feels a pulse jolt through her body, a pulse of new life. It begins in the brief contact of his mouth upon hers and spreads like a cancer. Like the most resilient parasite.

Almost like an idea.

And what an idea it is.

Her mind on hyper-speed, she allows herself a millisecond to imagine it. He _would_ live here—in a penthouse suite of course, one that she would design for him. She would keep it free from the excesses that she so frequently let herself indulge in and instead try and implement lines that flow in and out of each other, a place of balance and evenness, something he could blend into. The people down below would always move in out and too, in travelling masses, never in the same spot. They would move below him, always in synchronization as he lived a quiet life that is and isn't at the same time. A home without a base. And he would love it here. He would spend his days next to a window thinking of plans and straight columns, calculations without end, his mind direct and focused.

And she will come to him in the nights to deconstruct him. Not solely for own benefit either because they both need the other. His symmetry will break, his eyes will meet hers, and jus t like the first contact, the first idea, they will be together. His body of lean planes and hardened resolve will transform into flexible curves and liquid strength. A hint of sensuality, a touch of heat, and somewhere in there, a stirring and fleeting affection. Maybe even love. And she will go to him every night until they both realize what it means.

Not the sort of life that you read about. But then again, what sort of life is?

And then his lips depart from hers and she makes herself stop because this is a job and there's no time to be thinking of things like these. She looks around furtively to see if his distraction technique has worked (because, she knows, that's all it was and ever will be), and to her surprise and dismay, their eyes continue to look at her as if she was an alien. "They're still looking at us…"

"Yeah…" he responds, his apprehensive embellishments receding into their former, smooth façade. "It was worth a shot."

And she smiles because this is exactly the thing she expects him to say. And then she puts all further thoughts of him and hotels away and gets ready to charge forward. There are more important things. Things like Robert Fischer's inception, Cobb's increasingly toxic psyche, dreams within dreams, and almost certain danger at the hands of Mal.

And at the end of the day, when the job is over, when the terror and splendor is all but a memory, she forgets (or tries to at least) about the brief thoughts that flashed through her mind. After all, it wasn't her dream that they were performing inception on. Moreover, she is an artist. And artists always preoccupy themselves with silly, trivial things. Things that are beautiful but not real; things that break when you touch; evermores and never-will-bes. Things that are and aren't because there's something simply stunning in the contradiction. It happens all the time.

Why should this time be any different?

* * *

Two years later, she's made herself a new life. There was money involved of course from that first job, so she's paid for school, gotten out of sharing a cramped two room apartment with someone she hated, and bought a brand new flat furnished with all the flourishes in the world. Cobb was right though—she can't dream anymore. Pure creation is no longer something that she is allowed access to. This would break someone weaker than her, but she is strong, and she knows that one day she'll be given an opportunity to return.

Oftentimes, she thinks of them. She thinks of Cobb, a glorious mess, ocean tides that crash in harmony and discord and symphony. She thinks of Eames, adrenaline rush and high octane speed, a freight train on a mission, a fight always in the making. She thinks of Yusef and his cramped hallways and narrow rows of concoctions and chemicals, dreams in a bottle, denial corked in a vial. Sometimes she even thinks of Robert Fischer, wondering if they ruined him or saved him, wondering if his sad eyes were somehow a bit happier now.

And then, her thoughts invariably turn to him.

It's funny how she thinks of him the most when she perhaps knew him the least. Or conceivably the best. Again, she's caught in a contradictory thought process involving him, and she knows it's not because she's forgotten his lips or her thoughts from that day.

No, it's the fact that she hasn't forgotten. And might not for a long time.

One day, a normal day, she hears a knock on her door. She runs quickly, excited, expecting an important delivery. Months and months ago she killed the hopes that it might be him from entering her brain, so when she opens the door, she is nearly brought to her knees at the surprise of seeing him once more, his face and body still in symmetry, still in concentric circles, still linear and angular, still beautiful, still everything she's secretly wanted this whole time. And now, he stands before her, smiling, letting his inner superfluities show through.

"Ariadne. I've missed you."

He reaches forward to run a hand down her cheek and her mind flashes back to penthouse suites, to people always in transit, and to hints of affection and maybe even love.

"Me too."

And she pulls his hand, beckoning him inside, to show him her plans of a multilevel hotel that's sleek and stark with modern lines and contemporary angles.

* * *

_It doesn't suck too much, right? =]_


End file.
